Ed inhaled. A heavy Gulf of Mexico breeze slapped humidity against his nose and sinuses.
They’d landed inside the remains of an old mission somewhere on the Gulf Coast, not far from the ocean.
Wrenn wiped the blood onto her black pants. “This building used to be the local equivalent to Manny’s Backwoods Lodge in the Paul Bunyan Forest. Such places tend to harbor unused Heartway stops.”
She waved as if she refused to say any more.
So no more talk of the Heartway and its heart-ripping ways, which was fine with him.
She extended her hand to help him up. “We should be in a place called Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge.”
Overhead, stars shimmered in the evening sky—and a dull glow danced along the horizon to the south.
They were near a town. A big one, too, from the light pollution.
The town was likely Brownsville, which meant they weren’t anywhere near Santo Guijarro County. But it also meant they were considerably closer to South Padre Island—and one of the most powerful Gulf Coast vampire clans.
American vampires were not Old World vampires. American vampires were new money, relatively speaking. American vampires were corporate.
Lots of shipping money, in New Orleans. Lots of oil money, in Texas. And all along the coast from the Everglades to South Padre, lots of tourist destinations, especially destinations where transient young people liked to get drunk and act stupid.
American vampires were as American as baseball, apple pie, and tax evasion.
Ed dusted off his knees and tied his jacket around his waist. Winter temperatures in South Texas were normal summer temperatures in Minnesota, and he’d overheat damned fast if he didn’t drop the coat. “Is he taking them to the Claytons?” he asked as he stripped off his hat and stuck it into his back pocket.
Wrenn frowned. She didn’t seem fazed by the change in temperature, which shouldn’t come as a surprise. He’d seen her brother—not her vampire brother, but Frank Victorsson—walk around totally unfazed by temperature changes, too.
And after the little bit of privacy invasion he’d just witnessed in the Heartway, he was one hundred percent certain that Alfheim’s elf-raised son of Victor had a fae-raised sister.
All of which he stuffed into his Wrenn Goodfellow file in the back of his mind.
“Warren Clayton Jr., patriarch of Clayton Gas and Oil, master of his domain, and owner of half of South Padre Island via an intricate web of shell corporations.” Wrenn pulled out her phone again. “Warren Clayton, Jr. also happens to be the one and only Warren Clayton of Belfast, a grifter of a man born right around the same time as I was.” She held the device again as if looking for service. “And one of the first Anglos in this area.” She tapped at the screen. “His son disappeared about ten years ago.”
She knew more about the clans than he did. “You and I are going to share notes when this is done,” he said.
Wrenn looked him up and down. “No deals, remember, Sheriff? Not even with fae-adjacent witches.”
There was that witch thing again. He filed that, too. “Where are my kids?”
Unlike Paul Bunyan, reserves in this part of Texas were full of roads and trails. If Ranger got the van onto a flatter surface, he’d have them out and to the vamps in no time.
He pulled out his phone and called up the GPS tracker.
According to the app, the van was literally on top of them.
He cocked his head, listening for little clicks, or small noises, or dust settling. And there, just on the other side of the south wall, a small tick of a cooling engine.
“Gabe!” he shouted. “Sophia!” He bolted around the adobe.
The van teetered on a pile of what was left of his garage. The door into the house stuck out from under the back tires, and the garage door under the front. The concrete of the floor lay strewn about like beach sand. His snowblower sat on its side against the adobe of the old mission.
No way the van, even if it had been capable of moving, would have gotten off that rubble in one piece.
“Where are my kids?” He peered into the bush. “Gabe! Sophia!” he called again as he scrambled up the rubble pile.
The van was empty. He peered in through the back windows looking for any clue. “The kids’ phones.”
“Careful!” Wrenn called from down below.
Ed crawled in through the open back passenger door. No blood. No burn marks, either, which was good. He fished the phones out of the back and tucked them into his pockets with his own. “I don’t think they’re wounded.”
Wrenn closed her eyes as if listening. “He can move fast in stallion form,” she said.
Ed clambered down the rubble pile. “How fast? Which direction? Are they riding him? Riding a kelpie is seriously bad juju, isn’t it?”
Was one of his kids carrying that damned sword like it was Excalibur or something? He had a flash of Gabe dealing with all the crap that came with being the Once and Future King.
Because they needed that, too.
“Ranger won’t hurt them,” said Wrenn. Her expression said the rest of what she was thinking: He’ll leave that for the vampires.
That kelpie wasn’t going to survive this. He’d be dead before the sun came up. Either the vamps would kill him, or the elves would.
Or Ed would do it himself.
Ranger had crossed the line from capture-and-detain to clear-and-present-danger the moment he’d stepped out of the fae realms. He, like the vamps, was the magical equivalent of a rabid animal.
Ed pulled out his own phone and dialed. “Bjorn,” he said. “We’re in Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge near South Padre Island.” He hung up. The elves might be able to dial themselves in with their magic in some sort of Heartway way… but he’d never seen them do so. Ever. They flew in airplanes like everyone else.
Which meant they’d be here in the morning, at the earliest.
Wrenn
